JUMPERS A 9/11 POEM
9/11
I wrote this poem seven years ago.
Who alive on that beautiful September morning, other than the tiniest child spared the memory, could forget that day.
The vast majority of us carry the images of that fateful day. The one I remember most is the jumpers. Those desperate people, approximately fifty, who joined hands or made makeshift parachutes, only to meet the same fate.
This poem is dedicated to them.
JUMPERS
They were like birds flying,
Leaping from flaming windows,
No wings to purchase air,
No hope of flying home.
They were like birds flying,
Tumbling in twos, alone,
Flashing by in a smoke-filled sky
While crowds watched in horror.
They were like birds flying
Flights, imprinting the nation’s memory.
They were like omens flying,
Carrying us into a world of fear.
UNPUBLISHED WORKS
My Reluctant Readers,
Here is another unpublished offering. It never found a home.
The subject matter is dark, but relevant.
TWO LOVERS
She fondles the syringe
As she was once fondled
By a lover long ago,
For this is her new love now.
The product of her first love
Gently moves within,
The product of her new love
Scars arms and thighs.
She feels a kick,
A struggle for life,
She forgets the past
As another is robbed of a future.
She sends her new love coursing her veins,
There is a treble, then nothing.
All is quiet as the night begins,
All is quiet, The endless night begins.
UNPUBLISHED WORKS
Dear reluctant readers,
I have not visited my blog for some time now. I have been busy revising my novel, The Beast Awaits, and hope to, by the end of the year, start seeking a home for this work.
In the meantime, I thought I’d post some of my work that no one felt worthy of publication.
This offering is a poem, written some time ago. Now that my daughters are both adults, I feel a special kinship to this poem that was written when they were children.
TRANSITIONS
The years, they march forever,
Dreams flare, then fade away,
Some reach, some corner of my mind
Still plays with yesterday.
The years, they take their toll,
Hopes dim, then fade away,
My youth, now past now spent
Has abandoned me this day.
I pause, I catch the sound
Of small children, my children at play,
The world comes slowly full circle,
I pause, nothing what to say.
Their years, the grow they flourish,
Their dreams, they seize the day,
I retreat, then yield and vanish,
Hope fills their world today.
BIO
Greetings my reluctant readers. I thought some of you might want to learn a little more about me, then again, maybe some of you have had enough. JUST KIDDING!!
Walt Trizna, a scientist for thirty-four years, is now a full-time writer of horror and science fiction. He has published more than twenty stories, both online and in print. Early next year his first novel, New Moon Rising, will be published by Midnight Showcase. Currently, he is editing another novel, The Beast Awaits, a story where stem cell research goes horribly wrong and leads to a catastrophe of global proportions.
Walt lives in West Chester, PA with his wife, Joni. They have two grown daughters, Annie working in theater in NYC, and Lynn living in Pittsburgh and interested in ecology and urban farming.
WRITING TECHNIQUES
This was an assignment for my writers group.
WRITING TECHNIQUES
HOW I AVOID THE
‘WRITING FUNK’
I think the ‘writing funk’ depends on the individual. Writing is a difficult profession. To constantly write takes a high level of dedication and fortitude.
So what is ‘the writing funk’? It could be the lack of ideas or the daily grind of life, or a combination of both. It could also result from having too many ideas and not enough time to see them through. I suffer from the latter.
I write science fiction and horror stories. My sick mind provides the horror; however, science fiction ideas come from another source. I constantly search newspapers and online science websites for anything that may speak to my imagination. When I come across something interesting, I print it out and store it in a folder marked, ‘future stories’. Periodically, I will go through this folder and group articles with a common theme that may build a story that speaks to my imagination. From there, I go to a notebook entitled, ‘future stories’, where I keep the articles and any of my first impressions and thoughts. This way, I am never at a loss for material for a story.
Also, whatever I’m going to write, whether it is a short story or a novel, I constantly think about it before I put pencil to paper. That’s right, all my initial drafts are written out in longhand.
Now for the process that goes into building a novel. At this point, I have written three novels. One of which will be published early next year.
When writing a novel, I start with an outline which is dynamic. I record this initial outline in a steno pad which I keep with me until the novel is completed. I constantly rewrite the outline with new ideas and changes to the plot, constantly adding details as the writing progresses. At times, I can hear the characters talking. I add those conversations to the pad and sometimes they eventually make it into the novel.
I can honestly say, in the ten years I have been writing – two fulltime, that I have never felt a funk for lack of material. Rather, when I’m in a ‘funk’, it’s for lack of time.
THE SNOW
As a resident of Pennsylvania, I can safely say we have experienced the winter from hell (if that makes any sense). With a beautiful spring upon us, I felt it safe to submit this poem to Necrology Shorts. They chose to publish this effort.
This poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Bells.
THE SNOW
See the delicate snowflakes fall,
Falling, falling, falling.
Whitening the earth, awaiting below,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the mounds of glittering white,
Building, building, building.
As they hide the ground from sight,
Building, building, building.
See the ceaseless falling snow,
Falling, falling, falling.
Will it stop, no one quite knows,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the drifts accumulate,
Building, building, building.
My longing for spring will no longer wait,
Building, building, building.
SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,
GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,
CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,
SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.
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